


Three Scratches

by NegativEvitageN



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:37:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NegativEvitageN/pseuds/NegativEvitageN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade gets a call that Sherlock’s been shot.</p><p>For the Let's Write Sherlock! Challenge 1: After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Scratches

**Author's Note:**

> It's Sherlock/Lestrade because this prompt probably isn’t going to get a lot of Sherstrade and I just really wanted some.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” Lestrade calls, racing up the stairs of 221 Baker Street, taking three steps at a time. His shoulders bump the narrow walls in his rush but he can’t seem to care. His loud heartbeat is drowning out the rest of his senses, nothing but the beating in his ears, his vision white-washed and pulsing with every beat. His legs are both strong and weak at the same time.

When he bursts through the door of 221b, he finds Sherlock sitting on the edge of kitchen table, shirtless, a trickle of blood down his left side pooling at the edge of his trousers, another on his right shoulder, another on his left cheek, his body trembling with adrenaline. John pushes a beaker and Sherlock’s discarded shirt aside to set down a first aid kit.

“Lestrade, what are you-?” Sherlock starts, his left hand pressed firmly against his ribs where the blood is leaking out.

“I heard you were shot,” Lestrade interrupts, quickly rushing to his side with three quick, seemingly impossibly long strides. He heaves a heavy sigh out of relief that the fool is actually alive.

“And who told you that?” Sherlock asks almost sarcastically, shooting John an ungrateful look. John, in full-on doctor mode, completely ignores him as he starts to clean the wound on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock shivers even though it’s not cold.

“John called me,” Lestrade explains, oblivious to the sarcasm, as he gently peels Sherlock’s hand aside to study the wound. Thank God, it’s just a graze. The bleeding has pretty much already stopped. 

Relieved, he places a hand onto Sherlock’s left bicep. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the touch but doesn’t say anything. For some reason, it momentarily calms the adrenaline-fueled trembling, so he allows it.

“Of course he did,” Sherlock hisses at John who presses the alcohol swab too roughly against the cut on his shoulder, purposefully antagonizing. They had pretty much been fighting ever since the cab ride home, John disapproving of Sherlock’s methods. He turns back to Lestrade with a forced reassuring look, trying (quite unsuccessfully) to hide his annoyance, “I’m fine. You didn’t need to come.”

“You should be at the hospital,” Lestrade worries, carefully watching John tend to the scrape. The hand on Sherlock’s arm is unconsciously tightening and retightening its grip.

“It’s nothing we can’t take care of here,” Sherlock replies, wincing as John forcibly slaps the bandage on. Sherlock makes a face at him that he either doesn’t see or just flat out ignores.

“You were shot!” Lestrade exclaims exasperated, gesturing at the injuries. Sherlock frowns back at him, hating the fuss that Lestrade was making for no reason. John lets out a small chuckle at Sherlock’s obvious discomfort.

“No. I was shot _at_. They’re merely scratches,” Sherlock replies, removing his left hand from his ribs to reveal the graze on his ribs, and Lestrade moves aside so John can start cleaning that wound next.

Curiously enough, as soon as Lestrade removes his hand from Sherlock's arm, the trembling starts again, and Sherlock immediately misses the warmth.

“Three scratches could’ve easily been three bullet holes, you stupid git! I could’ve been at a crime scene zipping you up in a body bag right now!” Lestrade persists with exaggerated gestures, moving to Sherlock’s right side.

“Yes, yes, I’ve already had this lecture from John! He wouldn’t shut up the entire taxi ride back,” Sherlock bites back, glaring at both of them in turn as he cleans the blood off his hands. Seriously, did nobody have faith in him?

“Well maybe you need to hear it again so you’ll realize that you’re not invincible,” Lestrade counters, placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder just beside the bandage. And again, as curiously as before, the trembling subsides, and he can’t help but notice all the excessive touching, perhaps a subconscious effort on Lestrade’s part to ensure that Sherlock is, in fact, still there and alright. A part of Sherlock finds it uncomfortable (physical contact was not his forte), yet at the same time another part of him finds It oddly touching (no pun intended). 

Lestrade turns to John who roughly slaps on the next bandage, prompting a protesting yell from Sherlock, “John, talk some sense into him!”

John simply raises his eyebrows at the detective as he pulls out another alcohol swab and gets to work on the cut on Sherlock’s cheek.

“Oh, don’t bother,” Sherlock interjects, cringing slightly as John runs the cold alcohol swab over the cut, “He’s giving me the silent treatment right now.”

Lestrade huffs in exasperated frustration and takes his hand away from Sherlock’s shoulder to run it down his face.

Sherlock, feeling the need to prove himself, makes a wide-armed gesture to present his body, “Lestrade, as you can see, I’m fine.” What he doesn't point out is the tremor in his hands.

“This time!” Lestrade says hastily, removing his hand from his face to frown at Sherlock.

John finishes up, throws the used swabs away, and then packs up the first aid kit.

Sherlock really doesn’t want to have another enemy at the moment, so he takes the opportunity to return the previous gesture and places his right hand on Lestrade’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him and make the man shut up. With one final reassuring squeeze, he hops off the table to put his shirt back on, hoping that’ll be enough to calm the man. He wasn’t exactly sure why Lestrade was making such a fuss anyways. He was completely fine, wasn’t he? 

John disappears momentarily to return the first aid kit to the bathroom just as Sherlock is on the third button of his shirt, having slight difficulty buttoning with trembling fingers. Lestrade stops him from continuing, placing a hand on his, and Sherlock glances up to try and read the detective’s intentions from his expression (filing away the fact that, for some reason, with Lestrade's hand on his, his fingers have stopped quivering.) 

“Lestrade?”

Instead of explaining, Lestrade simply reaches into the still partially open shirt and runs his hand gently over the bandage, an unreadable expression on his face that makes Sherlock’s body run simultaneously cold and hot at the same time. He can’t bring himself to voice a protest even though he isn’t entirely sure what’s happening.

“You could have died,” Lestrade whispers, running his hand so lightly over Sherlock’s skin that Sherlock has to involuntarily shiver. Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, caught frozen by the inspector’s touch.

Lestrade’s eyes look so far away, mystified, as if deeply lost in thought and can’t get an image out of his mind. His expression says that he wants to say more.

But instead, he removes his hand and takes a step back just in time before John reenters the room, as if he just intuitively had perfect timing, and Sherlock consciously worries if his warm skin is revealed in a blush as he resumes his buttoning, glancing at John as he walks past.

But he doesn’t have to worry about John noticing because he won’t even look at Sherlock and only gives Lestrade a sidelong glance as he wordlessly exits the room and marches upstairs to his bedroom, obviously still completely upset by the whole ordeal.

When the door upstairs slams shut, Sherlock sighs at his behavior. At everyone’s behavior, really. What’s the big deal? He’s perfectly fine! Why is everyone acting so weird all of a sudden?

"I'm sorry about him. He'll be fine in the morning. He's just... worried," Sherlock apologizes, giving Lestrade a sort of half-hearted shrug before returning to the buttons.

Lestrade lets out a weak laugh, "Yeah, I know how he feels."

He’s conscious of Lestrade’s eyes on him as he finishes buttoning up his shirt, feeling weirdly exposed despite being covered up. Usually he was the one scrutinizing other people, not the one being scrutinized, and surprisingly, it’s not a pleasant experience.

He looks up to catch his gaze, but Lestrade is staring at the blood-soaked rip in his shirt, that same unreadable expression on his face making Sherlock’s skin burn while his insides freeze. Something funny happens with his heartbeat, a small, almost unrecognizable flutter, and Sherlock catalogues the information away for later analysis.

As a defense mechanism, he analyses Lestrade right back so he doesn't feel like the test subject any more, deduces that the inspector was at work when he received John's call, had been drinking a cup of bad coffee to keep him awake as he finished his load of paperwork, sees that Lestrade slept on the sofa last night, not on purpose but because he fell asleep while doing paperwork or watching television or something, can tell that he didn't have a lot to eat today besides one hastily made sandwich (ham, mustard, lettuce, pickles) and a cold left-over piece of pizza (basic pepperoni). But, damnit, if there's one thing about Lestrade that he can't deduce, one thing that is keeping him in a floating state of confusion, it's that expression.

He clears his throat to get the inspector’s attention, to divert that irritating stare away from dissecting his body, to bring Lestrade back from wherever he has ventured. What he gets instead is the full force of that unreadable expression boring directly into his own eyes, intently, fiercely, and now the hot and cold reaction only intensifies. Sherlock is almost sure that at this point he must be blushing, which is just a ridiculous notion because he never blushes. His skin feels like fire. His stomach, like ice.

“Inspector?” Sherlock prompts, wondering if he's supposed to say something, wondering if Lestrade’s waiting for something more. _Why are you still here? You’ve concluded that I’m fine. You can go now._

He just looks back at Sherlock, his gaze momentarily resting on his cut cheek, a cut which, Lestrade can’t help but think, could have easily been a head shot had the criminal had better aim. And he can’t get the thought out his head. Can't get the image of Sherlock lying on the ground with a bullet in his brain, dead eyes staring past him, out of his mind.

When no other words can filter from his brain to his mouth, he settles on repeating the same sentiment, “You could have died.”

“But I didn’t.” Sherlock explains slowly as he walks past him and into the sitting room to pick up his violin, as if the inspector’s mind is working too slow to understand, and casually throws over his shoulder as he starts playing “Isn’t that enough?”

Lestrade’s eyes follow him, but he remains in the kitchen, grounded to where he stands, hearing but not really listening to Sherlock’s violin. Sherlock wonders, increasingly irritated, what he’s supposed to say to firmly end this conversation and get on with his life. Was Lestrade waiting for a statement? Because he knows he’s never going to get one. This was all off the record anyways and he didn't want any police involved, even if he had been shot at, and Lestrade knew it.

When he plays a couple of notes and can tell that Lestrade hasn't moved, he turns back with an expecting glare, "Goodbye, Inspector."

He feels his skin momentarily flush with anger, with embarrassment, with another unknown source of heat that he can’t quite identify, before he quells the sudden spike of emotion with another pull across the strings, turning his back once more.

Behind him, Lestrade sighs audibly, but Sherlock ignores him, mentally willing him to leave so that he can bask alone with his thoughts and think things through. He needed time to recuperate.

He focuses solely on the violin, solely on thinking, not noticing, or caring, if Lestrade has even left or not or if he’s still standing in the kitchen, not wanting at all to glance back and see if he’s still there.

A minute ticks by with nothing but the sound of the violin.

And he plays, shutting his mind out to anything but the music. Not even thinking about Lestrade possibly still standing there. 

Wanting to say something. Looking so far away.

Not thinking about him reaching into Sherlock's shirt. About him running a hand down his side.

Not thinking about that unreadable expression boring into him. His skin turning hot and prickly. 

Not letting his mind wander to an image of Lestrade taking care of his injuries, putting on the bandages, firmly pressing down on his skin and-

Sherlock slams the bow into the strings and jaggedly rocks the bow back and forth to produce a cacophony of horrendous screeches, trying to take his mind off it. He _wasn’t_ thinking about Lestrade, remember? 

When he thinks his violin can’t take anymore abuse, he pulls it away with a huff and turns with a defiant stance, violin gripped tightly beside his hip, to look back at the kitchen just to make sure.

And, sure enough, Lestrade is still standing there, penetrating eyes and all, watching him carefully. Hasn’t even moved.

“Is there something I can help you with, Inspector?” he bites out, irritated, not entirely sure what he’s irritated at. His body has started shaking again.

Suddenly Lestrade moves directly at him and he flinches, bracing himself for some sort of impact.

But the inspector goes straight past Sherlock’s defenses and does the one thing he wasn’t expecting:

He hugs him.

Sherlock freezes, violin and bow suspended awkwardly in hovering arms. For a moment he panics and wants to get away, but Lestrade only tightens his hold, his arms wrapped firmly around Sherlock's waist. For some reason that Sherlock is still trying to place, his body immediately stops trembling.

“Don’t do that to me again,” Lestrade says, voice low.

And there's something about that voice that sparks a stir in Sherlock's stomach, something that Sherlock can't quite place.

"Uh. Yeah. Sure," he replies, awkwardly patting Lestrade's back with the violin bow.

At first, he wants to get away--he's always hated physical contact and hugs were generally deemed too intrusive. But there's something oddly comforting about Lestrade's arms around him.

And he slowly--ever so slowly--relaxes into his hold and finally hugs the inspector back.


End file.
